


Vicious

by animalboything



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5799946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animalboything/pseuds/animalboything
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old drabble-y thing of snippets with a lot of couples and the way they engage together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vicious

Sex was always a vicious cycle.

Behind closed doors, Kanda would slam Allen against the wall, door, bed, floor, dresser – anything with a flat surface. Kanda and Allen liked it rough. Dominance and submission came together with each thrust, each pulse – the pain that came with the speed of their fight was only a reminder they were alive. 

Arystar Krory loved an akuma. He’d labored each night after her death, throwing himself upon walls, biting his own forearm in hopes of recreating the feeling he had once with her. “Forgive me,” he whispered as he ran his fingers through Miranda’s hair, gazing down at the pigtails he put them in as she undid his fly. 

They were sixteen, Kanda learning English through conversation, and Lavi processing the fact that yes, indeed, Kanda was male. They sat on the same bed as Lavi flipped through adult pamphlets, touching themselves through their trousers before undoing their flies. They panted in unison as they pumped. Lavi turned his head to ask the question, but Kanda’s hand was already covering his own. 

The Lee siblings might have well been twins with the telekinetic bond they shared, sometimes a door only separating them as they moaned in self-pleasure, legs spread, bodies thrusting against air. There had always been that longing before, but Komui thought he was a pervert, and Lenalee thought she’d grow out of it.

Everyone thought Reever and Komui were fuck-buddies on a daily basis – how wrong could they all be. There was only the one time at the end of a twenty-three-hour work day, a heated argument ending up with Reever gripping the front of his boss’s coat and slamming him against the wall. He hadn’t expected Komui to bend him over the desk, tie pulled taut around his throat like a noose, but he certainly didn’t complain.

Cross and Komui were on and off, the man disappearing for months to years on end without word, but Komui would wait, and sometimes take a prolonged phone call. “I’m not gay,” Cross would say, and Komui would reply, “Neither am I.”

Komui wasn’t the only one to wait for Cross. Cloud Nine, true name unknown, would wait an eternity for him. He’d look at her, and she’d firmly state that she wouldn’t sleep with him. He tried for years, and the more she denied him, the more he wanted her. He called her a beautiful woman; she called him a dirty bastard. He dubbed her an over-emotional whore; she parried with, “You’re the one who got the clap.” It was always like this, but what Cross didn’t know is that she stayed put no matter how far he would run. That he was the one she thought of whenever she slipped her fingers inside.

Everybody liked Lenalee, and Lenalee liked everyone. But men would get stupid; they would fight wars for women’s affections. Sometimes Miranda would go to the baths with scented oils not realizing that Lenalee, no matter what, was always two steps behind. “Let me wash your back,” she’d offer. But the washcloth would always go past her back. Ample breasts and hardened nipples, slightly less lubrication, but penetration wasn’t necessary. Not with clitoral stimulation.

Sometimes Kanda would cut Allen, carefully tracing his family’s name between Allen’s shoulders, occasionally between the dimples on his lower back. And sometimes Allen would take melted chocolate and dunked a strawberry in it before he wrote words of adoration across Kanda’s abs. “I hate sweets,” the swordsman would say, and Allen would reply, “I love them.”

Winters Sokaro hated everyone and everything – he never would discriminate. People were pathetic, all eventually turning into loser dogs. He wouldn’t bother because they always became a disappointment. It had started out a disagreement, then a lost bet, before he had Cloud Nine naked on her hands and knees as he held the tail end of a chain leash, dog collar too tight around her unscarred, slender neck as he sodomized her. When he was finished, she asked if she could leave. The way she waited for Cross was the way he waited to tell her how he felt. That he loved her. And maybe that’s why he said “no.”

Five – it was the number that marked Jasdebi’s life. Five, five, five, five, five… No matter what, it had to be that number. Five, the number of people in their immediate family. Five, the incisions on Jasdero’s lips. Five, an uneven number of orgasms the twins would share, Debitt grunting as he thrust, then rode – “Debitt loves Jasdero” – while Jasdero, with that deadened expression, laughed: “Five, five, five, five, five.”

“What are you doing?!” Lavi’s face morphed into one of absolute horror, but no more sickened was Krory himself as he lifted his hands and face. The vampire had no excuse, no words formulated without an apology as a precedent. “Is this what you need, Crow?” Lavi asked, softly. “Is this what you need?” Lavi asked as he unbuttoned Krory’s slacks. “You don’t have to say anything at all.”

“I’m not into necrophilia,” Cross protested sharply as Cloud quirked her brow, eye falling to the coffin the man drug with golden chains. Grave of Maria. Cross’ eyes narrowed in agitation. “Oh, shut up.” But Cloud only looked at him with that same, indifferent expression she always had and said, “I didn’t say a word.”

“I’m interested in Lenalee.” Lavi was always point blank when it came to love, and inherent interests. Blunt. Brash. “I’m interested in _you_.” He’d court her, flirt, open doors, try to peak up her skirt – efforts done in vain as she shot him down time after time. Not this time, however, as she pressed him against the wall, body flat against his. He didn’t take off his pants, nor did she remove her skirt, but when it was over and she walked away Lavi was the victorious owner of white, silk panties.

Jake Russell was the definition of straight-until-divorce. He had many frustrated nights, crying over a gin and tonic as his marriage deteriorated due to the amount of time he spent at the Order for work. Reever had been the hand on his shoulder, then just twenty-years-old, and twenty years his junior. Russell wasn’t sure what prompted the kiss, nor who rimmed who first, but even after he broke up with Reever after the Australian got the promotion he had been craving, he was always pleased to note on occasion the thin lines of the thong, a lace little thing Russell got for the other, through the man’s trousers. Role playing, he called it, but Reever didn’t like to act.

Sir Tyki Mikk was the pleasure of the Noahs, something he basked in. Women, Men, it didn’t matter – what mattered was whether they bled. It fascinated him: the heart pulsing in his hands, the look of terror upon their faces, the sounds of their screams, that deformed hand of Allen Walker with its crumpled innocence rubbing against his throbbing dick after he severed it from the boy’s body.

So it didn’t matter, in the end, as to who was fucking who or who was watching with longing eyes, but rather who would get off. Really, that’s what it was all about.


End file.
